I wasn’t sure what to say, so I erred on the side of vague. “Did I?”
She expelled a shaky breath through the phone. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t even know if I’m doing it right.”
“Doing what?”
She giggled, a panicked, almost hysterical laugh that died in a sniffle. Our connection was so clear, it was like she was sitting right in front of me. I searched through the windshields of the adjacent cars, expecting to see her staring back.
My finger hovered over the red button on the screen. “Are you okay?” I asked, against my better judgment. “Do you need help or something?”
“No, I’m not okay.” She blew her nose into the receiver and our connection became garbled, as if she were talking into a wad of tissues. “My husband … He’s … not a nice man. He’s doing strange things. Terrible things. If it was just the once, maybe I would understand, but there have been others. So many others.”
“Other whats? I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.” I should hang up, I thought to myself. This was all getting really weird.
“I can’t tell him I know. That would be … very, very bad. I need you to help me.” She drew a deep breath through the phone, as if maybe her finger was poised over the red button, too. After a heavy pause, she said, “I want you to do it.”
“Do what?” I asked, struggling to keep up.
“Whatever it is you do. Like you said, neat. I just want him gone. I have fifty thousand cash. I was going to use it to leave him. But it will be better this way.”
“What way?”
“He’ll be at a networking event at The Lush tonight. I don’t want to know how it will happen. Or where. Just call this number when it’s done.”
The connection went dead.
I shook my head, still lost in the bizarre turn of the conversation. I glanced down at the bloody burp rag in my lap. At the knife in my open diaper bag and the duct tape threaded with Delia’s hair. I thought back to the woman’s pale face as she listened to our conversation between covert glances at my bag on the floor.
The bad guy gets handled, our sympathetic woman reveals the depths of her gratitude, everyone lives happily ever after, and you get a big fat check.
Oh, god.
I’m not taking a penny less than fifteen thousand … Let’s bury this one and move on to the next.
Fifty thousand dollars. She thought I’d said fifty thousand dollars.
Oh, no. No, no, no!
I stuffed everything back in the diaper bag. The paper. What was I supposed to do with the paper? Throw it away? Burn it? Run back into Panera, tear it into pieces, and flush it down the toilet? The faster I got rid of it, the better. I crumpled it and rolled down my window, holding it in my fist over the burning pavement.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I rolled up the window, stuffing the note back in my pocket as I put the van in gear. My heart thumped wildly as I eased out of the parking lot, careful to use my turn signals and check my speed. What if I was pulled over and searched and a police officer found it? My Google search history alone was probably enough to put me on a government watch list. I wrote suspense novels about murders like this. I’d searched every possible way to kill someone. With every conceivable kind of weapon. I’d researched every possible way to dispose of a body.
This was ridiculous. I was foolish to worry about a stupid piece of paper. I couldn’t be a suspect for a crime that hadn’t happened yet. And there was no way I was even considering this. If his wife wanted him dead, she could find someone else to do it. And I could get on with my—
Oh …
My hands gripped the wheel. This woman had sounded serious. Fifty thousand dollars was serious, right? What would happen if she did find someone else to do it? Could I become a suspect? I might.
Unless …
I checked my rearview mirror as I merged into traffic. What if no one found a body? What if no one knew for sure this Harris Mickler person was dead? There wouldn’t necessarily be a suspect at all, right?
I could practically hear Steven’s voice in my head, telling me I was being ridiculous, that I was imagining the worst and making up stories. It was the argument he always fell back on, the one he’d unloaded on me when I first suspected he’d slept with Theresa behind my back.
Only this time, I hated that he was right.
I smacked the steering wheel, cursing myself as I hugged the far-right lane of the toll road. Why was I even thinking about this? I had real-life problems to deal with: looming deadlines without babysitters or advances, overdue car payments, relentless calls from bill collectors … And this whole situation with Harris Mickler, this was sick. This was twisted.
This was fifty thousand dollars.
A horn blared behind me, and I jumped in my seat, speeding up a little to stay with the flow of traffic. I should pitch the note out the window, I told myself, and forget this ever happened.
I tapped the wheel. Switched on the radio. Switched it off again. Checked my speed as I glided past the toll booths through the E-ZPass lane, unable to stop replaying the conversation in my mind.
My husband … He’s … not a nice man.
Was he “forgets our anniversary” not nice, I wondered? Or was he “sleeping around” not nice? Because banging your real estate agent isn’t a reason to want your husband dead. It might be a legitimate reason to want his balls maimed in an accident involving a Weedwacker, or to wish him a horrific venereal disease whose symptoms include the words “burning discharge.” But killing a man for cheating on his wife would be wrong. Wouldn’t it?
If it was just the once, maybe I would understand, but there have been others. So many others.
Exactly how many were we talking? Five? Ten? Fifty thousand?
And why would telling him she knew about the others be very, very bad?
I turned into my driveway, grinding to a stop beside the stack of unpaid bills on the front stoop, praying that Steven had paid my electric bill as I clicked the button on the remote. A relieved breath rushed out of me when the garage door groaned open. I eased the van inside and shut the door behind me, staring at the empty pegboard as I turned off the engine. The garage was dark and quiet, and I sat for a while, thinking. About my kids. About my bills. About Steven and Theresa.
About all the real-life problems fifty thousand dollars could fix.
I fished the crumpled note from my pocket and peeled it open, wondering how bad a husband Harris Mickler really was.
CHAPTER 3
The clock on the microwave was flashing when I opened the door to the kitchen. I knew I had Steven to thank for it; he would never let our children stay in a home without power. Still, it was hard to feel grateful for hot water and lights when it was Steven’s fault our home had fallen apart to begin with. I was pretty sure this was all part of his attorney’s plan, conceding to give me as little as possible every month so Steven could swoop in and save the day, restoring the illusion of his moral worth while throwing shade on mine.
The longer it went on, the more I wondered if he was right. I spent the next several hours thinking about Harris Mickler. In my more virtuous moments, I imagined him as a Hugh Jackman look-alike—too charming and attractive to possibly fend off the countless women who must be throwing themselves at him, the poor victim of a jealous wife who would probably benefit from his life insurance policy. During moments I was far less proud of, I imagined him as Joe Pesci on Viagra and strongly considered the fact that, at his height, I could probably lift his lifeless body into the back of my van.